Well well well, here we go again. Sorry for the waiting (both for the chapter and the replies to your wonderful reviews). Yeah, I know I say it every time…But hey, I'm really sorry every time

Thanks for staying with me in this! And to Em, who revised the chapter even though she was feeling awful… Thanks, babe. I don't know what I would do without you.

We're getting close to the end…Enjoy the chapter!

-8-

"What are you doing?" Sam's voice startled me when he got back into the room, and I restrained myself from snapping the laptop closed. After all I wasn't doing anything wrong.

It was the fifth day after Jess's death. After the events of the previous night, we had had a quiet morning. Sam had taken off after lunch, claiming that he wanted to check out a bookshop. I was pretty sure that he really just wanted some alone time. Besides, I had the feeling that I made him nervous during research. It was as if my presence put more pressure on him to find something before I got tired of waiting or whatever. This wasn't anything new. Sam had always preferred plunging into his books alone without anyone's impatience burdening his performance.

"I'm just checking out some stuff," I said and shrugged.

"About what?"

"Huh…Blackwater Ridge."

Sam squinted at me.

"Wasn't that…That's where Dad's coordinates sent us, right?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Sam pursed his lips and walked away from me. Then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door closed. I sighed and kneaded my temples, already feeling the impending headache looming. Unfortunately our search for Jessica's killer was coming up empty, and at the same time our father's trail was growing colder. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge either reality, but as a result we were edgy all the time.

Although I didn't want to rush things for Sam, I was becoming restless. I was becoming all too aware that there was nothing to find in Palo Alto, and that too much would be lost if our father's trail disappeared altogether. When I was left alone, I wasn't able to keep myself from doing preliminary research on the area indicated by the coordinates he left for me in his journal. And it wasn't like I was planning to take off for the place overnight. Honestly, I was only browsing the net.

However, the search had lost its appeal the moment I knew it had hurt Sam. If he had felt pressured before, now he had to believe the whole issue was exhausting my patience, and it wasn't like that.

I did want to move on, but I understood perfectly that I had to wait for my brother. No one was going anywhere until he was ready, and he needed to know that. I was going to make sure that he knew it, just as soon as he came out of the bathroom.

I turned off the laptop and let myself drop onto the bed with a tired groan. Those days I felt the pull of sleep whenever I allowed myself to slow down. As a result I tried to be in motion all the time, but it was becoming harder with every passing day we were stuck in one place.

I tried to focus on the noises coming from the bathroom. It was something automatic for me to keep my senses on Sam at any time, especially when he was upset. However, the bathroom was silent and before I realized it I had dozed off. When I woke up, a few hours had passed. I sat up on the bed, still in a daze, and shook my head to blink away the remaining drowsiness. The sun was slowly setting behind the curtains, and I realized I had slept away the whole afternoon without being interrupted once.

"Sam?"

He didn't answer, and a worried frown made its way onto my face even before I had the chance to start consciously worrying over the apparent —but still unconfirmed— absence of my brother. It was something I didn't give too much thought to. It was nothing new that the slightest hint of Sam being in some kind of danger or distress elicited a physical response in me, and it was instinctive rather than rational.

"Sam!" I called again.

I stood up, glanced towards the open door of the bathroom, and then tossed a look around the room only to find it empty. I had a bad feeling and as much as I tried to convince myself that there was no reason to believe something was wrong, an increasing sense of trepidation was beginning to build deep inside my gut.

With an enormous effort, I took a deep breath to push the anxiety down. Sam had probably gone out for a walk, maybe to grab some food. It was a perfectly sensible thing to do. The only reason I was losing it was because we had been living practically attached by the hip during the last few days, and I had grown accustomed to keeping him in sight 24/7.

Hell, it had been hard enough to let him head out to the bookshop earlier, and only a great deal of self-control had kept me from following him at a distance.

Also, the fact that the last time I had seen him he was slamming the bathroom door closed, looking hurt and angry after suffering what had certainly been a betrayal from me wasn't exactly easing my mind. I reached for my cell, and then remembered that Sam had lost his in the fire. So not only was Sam out of the room and out of my sight, but he was also out of my reach.

Two hours later, the situation hadn't changed, and I was starting to go crazy inside those walls. I went out to look for my brother, but he wasn't anywhere near the hotel, or the diner where we had been going for our meals, or the supermarket… Anywhere. Still, there wasn't a real reason to worry. After all, we were in Sam's town, not in some unknown place where he might have gotten lost. But it was also true that Sam was not himself, and while any other time I'd have been more than glad to leave him a bit of space to unwind without my supervision, this time I just wanted him back. And I wanted him back now.

I thought about calling Simon when I returned to the hotel. At that point, I wasn't above admitting to myself he might know better than me where Stanford-Sam could have gone. I didn't even care about admitting to him I needed his help, as long as we found Sam and he was okay.

God, let him be okay

But I didn't have Simon's number. What if I called information? What had been the guy's surname? I was fumbling for my cell again when my eyes wandered over the desk, and my finger froze over the sending call button. With my heart racing, I dropped the phone on the bed and walked towards the desk. It was almost as if a part of me was convinced that by taking a closer look at the sight before me, it would suddenly change, and my father's journal would reappear next to the laptop. Next to the laptop where I knew I had left it.

Breathing forcefully around the lump in my throat, I ran to the Impala. My hands shook as I opened the truck, and I nervously eyed its contents. I quickly noticed what was missing.

And I instantly knew where my brother had gone.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

All my instincts screamed at me to barrel into my brother's apartment with my guns blazing. It was all I could do to subdue the blood call rushing through my veins and behave like the trained soldier I was.

That fucker.

As soon as I went in I felt the heavy scent of candles in the air and caught the flickering reflection of flames on the burnt walls. I swallowed the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and cautiously advanced with holy water in one hand and a gun in the other. The place was eerily silent, and my steps echoed in a way that was making me, the invincible Dean Winchester, shiver.

I went into the bedroom, and my breath immediately caught in my throat. The debris had been cleared away, the whole place had been swept, and there was a pattern drawn with chalk on the charred boards of the floor. On each corner of the pattern there were candles, and in the middle of it there was a bowl containing herbs and…blood.

Sammy's blood.

"It didn't work."

Sam's hollow voice made me jump out of my skin. I turned around to find him standing in a corner, half in shadows against the wall. The candle lights played tricks over his face, and made his eyes shine dully. My heart skipped a beat, and my legs went weak in the knees at the sight of him.

"Sam," I rasped.

He didn't acknowledge my presence but kept on rambling. All the while, his eyes remained fixed on our father's journal which was placed next to the candle-lit pattern adorning the floor.

"I don't understand. I'm sure I did it right."

I wanted to scream. Right there, I wanted to yell so that I could break the suffocating silence. And I wanted to hit him. Badly. I wanted to grab my brother and beat the sense back into his skull with my own fists, because fear and anger like I had never known was threatening to swallow me whole.

I wanted to cry. God, I was going to cry.

"You, son of a bitch," I growled.

Sam didn't even blink. He kept his arms at his sides, and my eyes found the cuts on his forearms. Rage engulfed me once more. I clenched my jaw and let the dark emotion wash over me. I felt that if I let go of a single bit of it, I would break into sobs or retches. Probably both.

"I followed all the instructions. I know I read the summoning incantation correctly, but it didn't work. Why?"

He looked up at me then. The little prick looked up at me as if he was asking me about something insignificant, something like the different phases of the moon or the connection between the clouds and the rain. The problem was that I couldn't bring myself to give a damn about why the fucking ritual hadn't worked, because the idea of what could have happened if it had worked was too overwhelming.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" I barked.

If it had worked, my brother would have been taking on a demon on his own. And I would have been the one to find him burning on the ceiling when he lost the fight.

"Maybe I should have been more accurate with the drawing," Sam mused. "I should try again—"

Before I realized what I was doing, I had slammed Sam against the wall.

"You wanna die?" I demanded. "Is that it?"

Momentarily startled, he met my eyes and then became oddly defiant.

"What do you care?" he hissed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, breathlessly.

I pressed him harder against the wall, and he winced almost imperceptibly. I was well aware that I was restraining him by the arms right where his cuts were but, God help me, that just made me press down on him harder. When he winced again a sick feeling of justice overtook me. Because if he was so damned willing to hurt himself, to hurt me, it was only fair that, as his big brother, I granted his wish.

"Get off me."

"I said, What.Is.That.Supposed.To.Mean?"

"And I said get the fuck off me!"

Sam pushed me hard, and I stumbled backwards a couple of steps, knocking a candle out of position in the process.

"No!" Sam exclaimed.

Seeing his expression twist when the pattern was disrupted was the last straw. I lost it and with a frustrated growl took my anger out on the room. I trampled the candles, crashed the bowl against the floor, and wiped at the chalk in a fit of rage. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes, but by the end of it I was panting and shaking like I would have in the aftermath of a hunt. The image of the havoc I had just created over the previous havoc from the fire was grotesque, and I was feeling nauseous again.

Sam remained frozen to the spot, staring. When I finally raised my eyes and met his gaze, the kid was stunned. Shock was the first emotion I was able to register in his eyes, just before it was replaced by betrayal and anger. That's when Sam stormed out of the apartment without a word.

But I was hot on his heels.

"SAM!"

I cringed at the sound of my own voice, because it was suddenly too similar to the one my father used when he was shouting out orders. And if I hadn't been blinded by my rage, I would have known better than to use that tone on Sam.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, without stopping his heated stroll or looking at me.

I can't stand it when he doesn't look at me. I'd rather be shot with rock salt. Repeatedly.

"Why?" I asked, laughing bitterly and quickening my pace so that I could catch up with him. "What the fuck was that, Sammy?"

"It's Sam!"

"No, it's not!" I yelled at him. "'Not 'til you stop pulling stupid stunts like this. Not 'til I can let you out of my sight for more that five minutes without having to rush in and save your ass. Until you stop acting brainless and grow the fuck up, it's not Sam!"

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around with a look of pure and unadulterated hatred on his face. That look stole my breath away. But unfortunately for the both of us, I was running on pure adrenaline. In such a state I was perfectly able to function without oxygen for quite some time.

"Screw you! I've been out of your sight for four years, and I've been just fine!"

"Yeah, I can see that!"

Apparently, adrenaline not only helped me function without oxygen, but it also made me say things I knew I'd regret as soon as they slipped out of my mouth. Sam's eyes shone dangerously, and I could feel the sharp blades of the daggers he looked at me. There was no other warning before I was on my back with a throbbing jaw and a nagging, scared voice inside my head screaming You deserved it, and Stop it, and You're gonna lose him.

"Fuck you, Dean. FUCK YOU!" he yelled, glowering. "I don't need your help! I'll find the demon myself!"

"It's not here, Sam!"

"You keep saying that, but the truth is you're just too eager to hit the road, aren't you? To follow Dad's coordinates like his damn dog! So, why don't you just leave, Dean?"

"You're really asking me why?" I questioned incredulously.

"I never asked you to stay! Hell, I didn't even say that I wanted you to! So head out to Blackwater Ridge or wherever the fuck you want. I don't want to know where you go. I don't care! Don't you get it? Just get out of my life already. You should have stayed away! Get in your damn car and leave me the fuck alone, this time for good!"

I stood slowly, my nostrils flaring. It wasn't only my abused jaw that was throbbing now, because my entire head was joining in as well. Too wired to relent, we just stared at each other for a few seconds. At the same time, we were both too hurt to throw the next punch, so the fight was over. At least the fight in me was. Because Sammy had finally uttered the words I dreaded the most. He had confirmed my most terrible fears. He didn't need me. He didn't want me there. And he meant forever.

"Is that what you really want?" I managed to ask, my voice suddenly rough.

Sam's chin quivered, only for a second, before he set his jaw and gave the slightest of nods. I felt as if someone was choking me, squeezing my throat until my lungs burned. The frantic beating of my heart joined the silent, agonizing orchestra in my head, but my mind was blank, empty. I think I nodded back and averted my eyes.

"Fine," I blurted.

I turned my back on him and absently made note of the Impala parked in front of the building. Funny, I thought, I didn't remember her being there. She must have been there during our fight along with the other cars, buildings, maybe pedestrians and even the casual onlookers neither of us had bothered to notice. The whole world had become a blurred image while I fought with Sam. While I lost Sam. Somehow, I had the feeling it would never be completely focused again.

I walked to the car in a daze, trusting its familiar silhouette to be my beacon, and I had to climb into the leather interior before I was able to draw in a single breath. My hand found the key and started the car without my mind playing any part in the motions. Before taking off, though, I looked at Sam one last time.

He was standing right where I had left him, fists clenched at his sides, eyes bright and an unreadable expression on his face that made my stomach curl.

Then, determined to leave Stanford in the rearview mirror as fast as I could, I hit the gas.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

I don't know how long I drove like that, always looking ahead, never back. The car swallowed mile after mile, obediently responding to my every request, but I couldn't seem to derive any comfort from the relaxing image of the road stretching out in front of me or from the familiar purr of the engine. The image of Sam standing by the road and the memory of the look on his face when I started the car were still chasing me, but for good or for bad, I couldn't tell. My brain was still in a blessed state of blankness, my senses were numb. I might have kept driving forever if the piercing horn of another car hadn't startled me into awareness when I missed a stop sign. The Impala swerved, but I managed to regain control and pull it safely over the shoulder of the road.

Then I climbed out of the car, fell to my knees, and threw up.

When I was able to find my way back to the driver's seat, the dry heaves had started to uncomfortably resemble sobbing, and I was shaking all over. I crossed my arms over the wheel and leaned against them to try to normalize my breath. My efforts were only rewarded with a pitiful whimper I couldn't believe had come from me. The words that Sam and I had thrown back and forth that day came back to me in a flood, their harshness and cruelty and terrible unfairness finally catching up with me.

How could I have said those things to Sam? We were both irritable and tired, but that wasn't an excuse. Sam had been on edge for days, high one moment and downright tail-spinning the next but…his girlfriend had died five days ago. He had every right to be irrational, and yet I was lashing out at him, because of it.

Less than a week. My father had been tail-spinning for 22 years, and I had given my brother less than a week before bailing on him.

Sam had been testing me, pushing all my buttons. He had been fighting me, the world, himself, every second since the night his life had collapsed. He was going down, kicking and screaming, and I hadn't even heard him.

"Why don't you just leave, Dean?

I had been too hurt and worked up to hear the trembling of his voice.

"Is that what you want?"

To see the small, nervous hesitation before he nodded.

"Fine."

And then it finally sank in. The expression on his face when I started the car: all rage gone, eyes wide in disbelief. In fear.

He had pushed me that far, because deep inside he was sure I would be strong enough to take it. Strong enough to see through his defensive front and stay no matter what. But what he didn't know was that my own insecurities after four years apart from him would get in the way. And that because of those insecurities, I would prove him wrong.

"God, Sammy," I whispered, "I'm so sorry."

It was nightfall when I started the car and headed back to Stanford. At that point, I could only hope that it wouldn't be too late.

oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo

Mmmm…hating me already? I think I feel the vibes. Only one chapter to go, plus an epilogue, so…imagine what's coming ;-)

Love!!